Boots
by Mallowcrisp
Summary: A songfic for The Killer's song of the same name. A more unusual explanation for what happened to the Strong Brothers' parents. Oneshot.


_Um... this is the first time in a while I've written anything, and the first thing I've written for Homestar Runner. I've lost a lot of the confidence I had in my writing skills, so this is probably utter crap. Please feel free to give me reviews, because I need to know how to improve. And this story is probably full of holes, because I couldn't think of a clever way to write some of the backstory in. Plus, the theory only works if it took place before the Homestarloween Party, unless Strong Bad was lying. So... yeah, supports nice.__This was inspired by the song Boots, by the Killers. It originally had a happy ending, but... when I wrote it, it didn't end up that way. I'll probably re-write this in a few months, if I still care about it then._

He trudged down the dark snowy street, red boots making a faint crunching noise. He carried a small box wrapped in newspaper, but had no difficulty holding the package, despite to the large boxing gloves he wore. After hesitating slightly, he continued to walk slowly down the icy sidewalk, pausing when he reached a small house.

Inside, the atmosphere was much different than the frigid night outside. Cheerful looking people moved around inside: An older, friendly looking woman passed a mug to a tired man with a bristling mustache; another man who looked to be around twenty sat on the couch, his arm around a young woman with straight brown hair; a man who could have only been the first's twin sat next to a small, seven-year-old on the floor, where they pushed a small toy monster truck back and forth underneath a large tree covered in rainbow lights. Wrapping paper lay strewn around on the floor, and some other newer toys lay strewn around, although little boy didn't touch them.

The man outside shuddered slightly, though not from the cold. That truck had been his. He remembered playing with it out on the front porch, slamming it into the wooden railing, his younger brother, and his father's shoes until they had taken it away. It amazed him that he could still remember that event, after all the years he spent avoiding his past…

The family inside the house looked perfectly normal; the man outside did not. His arms and legs were fantastically disproportionate to his body, not to mention his large, egg-shaped head, adorned with a Mexican wrestling mask that had been given to him when he was five, after he had begged his mother for it at the store. It looked as if it had almost fused to his face, as you couldn't even distinguish a nose or an actual mouth on it, only the rectangle cut into the mask where his mouth should have shown through. He looked as if he had lightbulbs plugged into his eye sockets instead of eyes. Practically an alien by this point, nobody would have believed that the older couple in the house had been his parents. He hadn't even seen them in over 18 years.

He sighed, acknowledging how much he had changed. The people in the house looked bizarre to him, their faces overly complex, their hands disgustingly detailed. After living so long in a world of his own creation, everything seemed this way. His mind, so simple then, had crafted a simple world around him: rounded green bushes, bright blue skies, simple inhabitants; inhabitants that quickly strayed from the boundaries that his imagination had set for them. They had grown into separate entities with their own ideals, goals, and aspirations, and he had lived with them for most of his life. In fact, the only real people that he had interacted with since he was seven years old were his two brothers, whom he had taken with him when he left so long ago. He wasn't sure if they even remembered who their parents were. Strong Mad… probably not. He had been diagnosed as mentally retarded before they had left. Strong Sad was younger than Strong Bad, and although he had a more level head on his shoulders, it was doubtful that he would remember something from when he was three.

Strong Bad hadn't brought them with him when he went out to see their old house that night. He didn't want them to know that he had any weak spots in the mental barrier he had constructed for himself since such a young age. And since they probably didn't even remember the house at all, what was the point?

He looked through the window from the shadows of the house next door, taking in the happy scene. He didn't know the younger people at all. What were they doing in his house?

He watched for what felt like a very long time, and an hour later, he was still there, though the lights inside the house had went out and the occupants had went up to their respective beds. Strong Bad shivered a little, then slunk up to the side of his house and peered through the window again. It was unlocked. It creaked loudly as he opened it, but he recklessly slipped into the house anyway, and thankfully, there came no sign that anyone had awoken. Stepping carefully over to the mantelpiece, he squinted at the pictures that sat there. There were pictures of children that he eventually identified as the same young men who had been sitting there earlier, and then there were pictures of three other children that he barely recognized at all. He carefully lifted one off of the tall mantelpiece and peered at the dusty photograph within the frame. After a long moment, he brushed the dust off and returned it to the shelf. Shaking himself to get rid of his cluttered thoughts, he slipped the package he had been carrying underneath the tree,

"Hey!" A loud whisper from the other side of the room caused Strong Bad to whip around. A pale, white face was peeking just over the sill of the window.

"Strong Bad! What're you doing here? Where is this place?" The owner of the face had a thick speech impediment, and it became even more difficult to understand after Strong Bad had raced to the window and grabbed him by the shirt, revealing that he had no arms. This didn't disturb Strong Bad, however, as she proceeded to shake him vigorously.

"Homestar! What the crap… what're **you** doing here? I've told you not to follow me!"  
Homestar narrowed his eyes and retorted, "Well, you were headin' in a different direction than you usually go in, and I wanted to make sure that you weren't skipping town before paying me my ten bucks."

Strong Bad dropped him suddenly, causing him to hit the sill.  
"Ow…" Homestar muttered.

"Look, Prancibald… go home. This is none of your business, and you'll blow my cover!"

"Are you robbing these people's house? Me thinks that you're losing your touch, Strong Bad. There's still lots of valuables left in there."

Strong Bad shook his head angrily.

"Just get out of here!" He pushed Homestar aside and clambered out the window, pulling it shut behind him. "Come on…"

Homestar obediently followed behind him, but kept chattering as they walked back the way that they had come.

"Where is this place, anyway? It's pretty weird… You know, this place reminds me of that time that we went trick or treatin', and then we had that costume contest that I won…"

"That I won, you mean. You were right there when I gave my speech!"  
"No way, Strong-Strong. Seriously, you gotta get that head of yours checked…"

The next day, while the rest of the family ate breakfast, the young boy discovered a wrapped present still buried under the tree.

"Looks like you forgot one, sonny." The older man chuckled.

The child ripped off the wrapping paper to reveal a stack of Post-Its. The top one read, in blue ink, "to my parents- these will save the company millions". Confused, the boy handed them to his grandmother. After a few moments of silence, she laughed and turned to one of the two twins.

"Eric! What does this even mean? Did you give me these?" Eric glanced at the sticky notes for a few seconds, but denied that he had given them.

"I don't even know what this means, Mom. They must be from Chad."

After asking Chad as well, it became apparent that the notes weren't from either of them. The humorous air that had surrounded their mother quickly vanished, and was replaced with a blank silence. After a long pause, she asked again,

"Who gave me these? Chad, you better not be joking with me, I mean it…" but she was greeted with stunned silence. After staring at the notes again, she slowly and silently turned out of the kitchen and up the stairs to her bedroom. She didn't return again until lunchtime, to the confusion of her family, and she refused to tell them just what about the gift had disturbed her so. At some point, they figured out what she must have been thinking, but they dismissed it as a cruel joke from a relative.

It must have been Derrik. What a loser. What kind of guy reminds his brother's wife about her three missing children 20 years after she lost them?


End file.
